The Star-Crossed Skies
by I Used To Be A Dragon
Summary: Della never wanted a hero's life. Guts and glory were well enough for some, but she'd only ever wanted to protect herself and those she loved. Mercenary work suited those needs—until bad luck and politics tore them away. Now she's forced into the Underdark, bound into servitude once again, with only a kobold to trust against a horde of Drow and a wary tiefling.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Expect slower updates, between work and college. I'll do my best for a chapter a month, or biweekly. Elvish translations at the bottom.  
**

**Valen**

He was never quite comfortable with this darkness. Even though he could see, it still felt suffocating, somehow. What few lights the temple had did little to lift that feeling. Indeed, the sights they illuminated were little better. The temple had long since been given over to Eilistraee and her worshippers, but Lolth's touch could still be seen. The silvery flames of the braziers before the dais flickered, their meager light sending shadows creeping away, crawling over the carvings of spiders that had been etched into the black stone of the pillars.

The altar on the dais had been sanctified, and the spiders scratched out to be replaced with two slender drow, both male and female, dancing bare skinned under a crescent moon, but he could still see bloodstains upon the altar's surface.

They had done their best to get rid of them. The red had faded to a dull brown, hiding in the etched grooves of the altar, but the stain stayed, as if it had become a part of the stone itself.

Not even the Seer had been able to wash it away.

Sometimes he feared she would never succeed.

"Ah. Valen. What memories darken your brow this day?"

He had been waiting for her, but had not heard her enter the chamber. That was another thing he had never become entirely comfortable with, and suspected he never would. She stood quietly behind him, the brightest thing in this black room. Her gown was the same silvery-white as her hair and it shimmered as it caught the pale flames, reflecting them back into further light.

"None, Seer. Only thoughts of the war to come."

She stepped forward to stand beside him, tracing her hands along the altar. Her face was placid, and clear of worries.

"The end draws nearer with every moment. We will do what we must, when we must." She looked up at him with the faintest hint of a smile on her lips. "Do not borrow troubles, my dear Valen. We have enough for a tenday."

His tail flicked with agitation, though he tried to hide his annoyance. He had tried for so long to be as she was, to be tranquil without being apathetic, to be merciful without being naïve. He almost succeeded, at times. He had come far, no doubt. And yet—still—always, that restlessness, that anger, simmered just beneath the surface. He took a breath, and slowly let it out.

"I know this, Seer. Has there been any word from Nathyrra?"

The Seer shook her head, eyebrows furrowing for a moment in what might have been the slightest concern.

"No. But I have faith that she will find who we seek, and bring her to us safely."

His tail flicked again, harder this time, and caught the edge of the altar painfully. His lips drew into a grim line, and his eyes narrowed.

"You are convinced, then, that this woman of yours will sweep in and save us all?"

He had tried to keep his voice even and calm, but even to his own ears, he could hear the undercurrent of anger. He winced, but the Seer only gazed at him quietly.

When she spoke, there was no reproach in her tone. Only gentleness, and somehow that was almost worse.

"Eilistraee has led me out of the darkness before, Valen. Many times. Have faith that she will do the same for you."

He looked again at the altar, at the carved moon upon it, and the red stains in the cracks. No gods had ever led him out of any darkness before. Only the Seer had seen fit to reach down and drag him out.

Two saviors in a lifetime seemed unlikely.

* * *

**Della**

The black smoke surrounded Della, the heat and grit sending tears streaming down her face, leaving pale tracks through the dirt. It smelled of burning hair and skin, a stench so foul she could barely breathe. Screams resounded in her ears—men and women, children, horses—an endless cacophony.

There was blood. So much blood. It ran in rivulets down her hands, mingled with the tears on her face.

_Alaric. She had to find Alaric. _

He was the only thing that mattered now. He was all she had left.

Nothing else. No one else.

She looked up at the tower before her, the craggy stone standing starkly against a flaming sky. She stretched out a bloody hand towards it—and then it was gone.

She stood in a grove of trees, lit by the moon, with her hand stretched out to a starry sky. The moss and grass beneath her bare feet was soft and damp with dew. A pond lay before her, the surface still and smooth as glass.

The air was cool against her skin, and she breathed it in deeply, the scent of fir and glacier lilies filling her lungs. She took a step closer to the pond and peered into it. Her reflection stared back at her. She was bare as the day she was born, pale-skinned and pale-haired, so much like her mother that for a moment, she ached to see her again.

_Wake up._

The breeze seemed to whisper in her ear, hissing the words sharply.

A night black figure rose behind her reflection, moonlight tearing on the sharp edge of a blade.

Her eyes flew open and she gasped for air.

She rolled to the side as the dagger sank into the bedding, catching the sheets and tearing them. She heard a feminine voice swearing in a language she'd heard before, long ago but would never dare to forget.

Drow.

There was a hissing screech next to her head, and a wild fluttering of blue wings as Syolkiir took flight from the pillow. The drow woman lurched forward to grab the dragon, but her hands met only emptiness as he vanished with a small pop of sound, like a bubble bursting.

Della twisted in the blankets, kicking them off her, and lunged toward the distracted drow. Her fist met the side of the woman's head with a loud crack, and she crumpled backward off the bed and to the floor. Della followed her over, straddling the woman.

The dagger was still sunk into the bed. Her own blade was in its sheath, stashed underneath the bed and far out of reach, now that she was on the other side.

But it didn't matter. She'd never been unarmed.

Della seized the smaller woman by her neck, clenching tight even as the drow's fingernails dug into her skin, sharp as claws. She felt the Weave, just beyond sight but always in reach, and grabbed one of the threads.

Power surged through her, as if she'd grabbed the tail of a comet. Her hands lit aflame, and for a moment, there was terror in the red eyes of the drow. And then there was nothing but smoke and charred skin, and a gurgling scream.

Then the door of her room slammed open, and there was another scream.

The innkeeper's daughter, Tamsil, stared at the scene, her brown eyes wide and her mouth hanging ajar, until she was startled out of shock by Syolkiir reappearing beside her soundlessly. She collected herself quickly and rushed forward, wringing her hands in her apron.

"Are you alright, Miss?"

Della pulled her hands from the ash that was once a drow, then with a frown, wiped them clean on the torn bedding.

"Better than I might have been, I suppose. I'll be better still once I've dressed."

"Oh! Of course, Miss. I'm so sorry." She blushed a bright red, and turned away as Della reached for her clothes. "Papa will want to speak with you about this. You're not the only one to be attacked like this, in the middle of the night. In Waterdeep, of all places! By drow! I can hardly believe it."

Della fastened the laces of her breeches, and pulled her doublet over her head, then fastened the dark leather jerkin snugly around it. She considered the warmth of the room for a moment, then shrugged and slipped the half-cloak over her shoulders anyway. It was a bit warm for it, but she hadn't spent months enchanting and stitching runes into the fabric just to leave it behind on account of the climate. She hesitated for another long moment, fiddling with the necklace that lay in the pocket of jerkin. She had left it on the dresser the night before. Then she sighed, and fastened it around her neck, tucking it under her doublet. The stone pulsed warmly, disconcertingly against her skin.

It was an ugly thing, but it had saved her before. It wasn't as if she could leave it behind, anyway.

Tamsil was still breathing apologies with her back turned.

"I'm just so, so sorry Miss. We're a respectable inn, and Papa knows about the dangers, lately! We've even hired guards! I can't believe this happened. He's going to be so upset about this, I know it. I-"

Della cleared her throat, and did her best to smile kindly at the girl as she peeked her head behind her shoulder.

"All's well that ends well. I'll not have you worry about what didn't happen. Would you be so kind as to run and tell Durnan that I'll be down shortly, please?"

Tamsil bobbed her head up and down nervously, but stayed still, as if she'd been stuck to the ground.

"Oh! Of course!"

Then her eyes widened again, as if just understanding, and she rushed away, her face once again an unparalleled shade of crimson.

Della sighed and pulled her hair back, nimbly braiding it into a tight crown. Syolkiir alighted on her shoulder and nuzzled into her neck, his gauzy, iridescent wings tickling the skin.

"Oh, now you want to be near me, _cin dilthen nadhor_?"

She glared at him playfully and he shrunk back meekly. She felt regret seep into her mind, with flashes of fear and surprise, then more sorrow. She sighed, then reached out a hand and stroked his scales.

"It's alright, _mui dilthen mel_. No harm done."

His tail curled around her back, and his claws grabbed hold as she knelt down to take her dagger from beneath the bed then rose again, strapping it to her hip.

She cast a glance back at the still smoldering body of the drow. Someone would need to clean that up. But not her.

She still had a mad wizard to find, and a favor to beg.

* * *

Elvish Translations

cin dilthen nadhor: you little rat

mui dilthen mel: my little love


	2. Chapter 2

Everyone in the Yawning Portal seemed poised on the precipice, hovering on the brink of tearing off into the depths of Undermountain. Maids wound their way through the crowd, some seeming concerned, while others merely seemed harried at the sudden influx of adventurers, drawn by the promise of glory and gold. Many of the sellswords were already fully armed, even though they still sat at their tables, nursing ales with trembling hands. Della thought she might have recognized a few faces, though none that truly stood out. She'd probably met some of them in passing, perhaps even worked with some of them on complementary contracts, though that seemed unlikely this far from the Moonsea.

None of them seemed to recognize her, and that suited Della well enough. She'd had more than enough of gawkers, lately. She was proud of Deekin and happy for his success, but the book had been a bit much. He'd managed to make her seem far more approachable than she liked to appear.

If she'd still been with Murtagh's Mongrels, she'd never hear the end of it. Even ten years hence, Murt had taken the time to send her a letter, congratulating her on her success since leaving their company.

With more ribbing than she'd thought truly necessary.

She still had it with her, the letter carefully kept but still bearing the lines of being repeatedly folded and unfolded. She missed that old orcish bastard. Sometimes he seemed like the last sensible person in Toril, with Drogan gone. He would have warned her off this course, she knew. Or worse, he'd have thrown himself into it right along with her. He'd never quite stopped seeing her and her brother as his responsibility— they'd always be the poor strays he'd brought in off the streets. So when he'd asked after Alaric, when he asked after Neverwinter, she'd not mentioned anything. Murt didn't deserve to be pulled into the midst of her struggles. He was one of the few that had managed to leave the mercenary life behind before it crumbled beneath his feet, and she wouldn't risk him returning to it for her sake.

Halaster was her last chance, the only option that still remained. She had to try, even if it killed her. Or worse, from what she knew of the mad mage.

She weaved her way through the crowd, sidestepping a maid balancing a precarious tray of drinks, then brushing past a reeling man who'd spent too long searching for courage at the bottom of a mug.

"Oi! Look at ye! Who let ye in here, ye scaly runt?"

Della did a half-turn towards the voice, brow wrinkled, her hand resting protectively on Syolkiir's side. He warranted a second glance, perhaps, but she'd been yet to hear someone taking offense at the little creature beyond a suspicious hand on their gold.

It was hard to see through the haze of pipe-smoke and the crush of bodies, but the man was nearby— the same large, bearded drunk she'd passed a moment before. He wasn't addressing her. He stood staring down, glassy-eyed and rednosed, lip curled in disgust at something she couldn't see, hidden by the man's turned body. None of her business, then. Della turned around again to see Durnan at the back of the inn's common room, wiping down tables with a rag. Tamsil had fought her way through the crowd and was leaned over the table, speaking to him. Even at this distance, she could see Durnan's jaw tighten and his eyes narrow. She took a step forward, pushing her way through the mass of people once again, then stopped as she heard a shrill, scratchy squawk behind her, then a loud clatter of something shattering.

Della sighed, willing herself to ignore whatever was happening. It didn't involve her. She needed to speak with Durnan, and make her way into Undermountain before a gaggle of hot-headed men in their father's old armor got there first and made even more trouble for her.

"Deekin is sorry! Deekin is just writing-"She spun around as the man laughed. She could see him now, the kobold the man had been talking to before. Deekin. The man had lifted him by his shirt, so that he was level with his face. Deekin was clawing at the man's hand, his neck craned back, as far away from the man as he could get.

"Kobolds, writin' books? Yer lot can't even speak like proper people. How'd ye sneak-"

"Deekin, friend!" Della called, her voice cutting cleanly through the din of noise. The man turned to look her way, and as he did, Deekin sank his teeth into his hand. He howled with pain and anger, dropping the little kobold to the floor and stumbling backward, clutching his hand to his chest. Blood dripped to the floor, mixing with spilled beer.

"Boss!" Deekin skittered forward, ducking as the man flailed another hand his way, weaving his way through people's legs to reach Della. The crowd took little notice of the exchange. With this many new people, a few brawls were expected. Della took hold of Deekin's shoulder as soon as he was within reach, then pushed him behind her. The man was shoving his way through the people, his head lowered and nostrils flaring, as if he were a bull.

"Stay behind me and stay quiet, Deeks. I'll sort this out." Deekin nodded, wrapping a hand around her leg and peeking his snout out around her just enough to watch, as if he were a child hiding behind his mother's skirts.

"is that-_thing-_yours?" Della grimaced as the man snarled, spittle flying from his mouth and flecking her face. She raised a hand and wiped if off, doing her best to keep a placating smile. He smelled awful, this close. Like stale beer and vomit lay in the black, bushy nest of a beard.

"I apologize, good sir. My friend-"

He laughed at that, cutting off her words harshly.

"Vermin, more like."

"My _friend _meant no harm, I assure you, "She stated firmly, squaring her shoulders and meeting the man's gaze coolly, "However, I would be more than happy to give a few gold to prevent any future…misunderstandings."

She could feel Deekin's accusing stare at the concession. She squeezed his shoulder a bit more tightly, gently tugged a thread of the Weave, and sent a whisper of thought his way.

_Better gold than blood, Deeks. _

He sniffled a little, a low whine humming in his throat.

_Deekin not…Deekin not bad, boss. _

_I know._

"A few gold! A few gold, ye say!" He thrust his bleeding hand in her face, shaking it so blood dripped to the floor. "Look at what the blasted creature did to me!"

It wasn't as bad as he insisted, she thought. There was a lot of blood, true, but that was hardly surprising from a man as drunk as he. The actual wound was barely worse than a nasty scrape. Deekin hadn't bitten as hard as he could have.

"How am I supposed to work-

"Three gold. You may take it, or you may leave it, but this conversation is over." She fished the gold from her coin purse, and proffered them to the man.

He hesitated for a moment, pride warring with greed on his face, then reached a hand forward to take them. Deekin clutched her leg a little tighter, and she heard him snuffle quietly.

She dropped the coins to the floor, the gold clinking rudely against the wood.

"Oh, dear. Clumsy me." She smiled innocently as the man looked up at her. His already ruddy face had reddened even further with embarrassment and anger, but he leaned down once again to scoop up the coins.

She stepped on them before he could, then grabbed a handful of his hair, forcing his gaze upwards once more. His eyes met hers, bloodshot and black with anger. He went to lunge to his feet—

"_Stay."_

—and found he could not. He sank back down bonelessly. She could see some part of him fighting her order, small twitches on his suddenly complacent face, but he could not break her hold. Even sober, she doubted that he could manage such a feat, and she wasn't certain this man had ever spent a day out of his cups.

"_Listen."_

His bleary eyes focused on her face attentively, as if she were suddenly the only person in the overcrowded room.

"Uh, boss?" Deekin tugged at her shirt, and she turned her attention to him, still holding the man by his hair.

"Boss, Deekin be thinking, maybe we just leave? Deekin be okay."

He looked up at her plaintively, and she fought to soften the scowl on her face.

"You shouldn't be, Deekin. You should be angry. And _you_-"She spat her words out as she looked at the man again, still staring up at her obediently, "-_you_ deserve to have an apology beaten out of you. Did you truly think I would give you some gold, as if you could pay to abuse my friend?"

He whimpered a little, eyes wide with panic, unable to speak or lift a finger under the force of her command. Syolkiir shifted uncertainly on her shoulder, and she hesitated at the ripple of doubt that crept through her mind.

"Boss!"

Deekin pulled at her again, more urgently this time.

"Hush, Deekin." She hissed through gritted teeth, feeling the man's mind writhe in her grip, trying it's best to slip out of her grasp while she was distracted.

"If there's a problem, I'll thank you lot to fix it outside."

Durnan's large hand clapped down on her shoulder, sending Syolkiir fluttering into the air with an indignant squawk. She released the man none-too-gently, and he sprawled to the floor, then scuttled back crab-like on all fours, scrambling out of her sight.

"I apologize, Durnan. I didn't intend to…well, I didn't mean to involve you. I lost my head a bit."

He sighed and pushed her to sit at the nearest table, then took a seat next to her, calling out to a serving girl for some stew and ale in spite of Della's protests. Deekin scrabbled up next to her, Syolkiir perched on his head, apparently deeming him the less precarious choice. She saw Durnan eye the kobold up and down, then he reached out a hand.

"You'll be Deekin Scalesinger then, if I don't miss my mark. Can't say I've ever seen a kobold bard, much less a famous one, but you've done a fine job, lad."

Deekin took his hand a bit awkwardly, and held it, as if uncertain what exactly he was meant to do. Durnan grinned, and shook it firmly anyway.

"Deekin just be writing about Boss. Deekin not be so famous."

"Aye, mayhap, but you've traveled with Adelais and are no worse for the wear. That takes a true talent."

Deekin tittered a bit nervously, casting a wary eye Della's way. Syolkiir hissed quietly, his blue scales darkening to a deeper indigo.

"Just Della, if you please, Durnan. I've never been particularly fond of Adelais," She spoke softly, wincing at the name. Even now, it still held too much of her mother's expectations in every syllable.

He nodded at her, his brown eyes crinkling at the edges as he smiled.

"Apologies, lass. I remember you insisting on that name, last time you and the Mongrels were here."

She chuckled at that. Durnan had a better memory than she'd hoped, to remember such small things from so long ago.

"Ah. True enough, but you'd be insisting on your name too, no matter how much you hated it, if you'd been in Murt's company."

Durnan snorted fondly at the mention of Murt, reclining further back in his seat.

"What was it he called you two? The Birds?"

She could hear Deekin's quill scribbling away furiously. She'd have to steal those pages away when she got the chance.

"Aye. Bluejay and Magpie. One to squawk at a man, and another to steal his coin." She recited, doing her best to mimic Murt's deep rumble of a voice. "I swear, he never let us live that down."

A bowl of stew thumped down in front of her, so thick with meat and potatoes that it barely even sloshed in its dish. The ale was not quite so lucky—a good half of it splashed out onto the table, and she quickly leaned back to avoid a stain on her tunic.

Durnan shouted a quick "oi!" at the departing girl's back, but she rushed away without turning around. He sighed and shrugged as he looked back at Della, then took a long swig from the mug.

"Better mockery than losing a hand, I suppose."

"And I'd happily endure a thousand of his jests to see the Mongrels back together again."

Durnan shook his head a bit pensively, his gaze somewhere far away and long ago.

"I don't doubt you would, lass. Nothing good ever came from dealing with Zhents."

Della gave a crooked smile that didn't reach her eyes.

"No. Nothing good ever did."

"What be Zhents, Boss?" Deekin piped up, his quill stopped in its tracks by confusion. Durnan looked as if would have spit at their name, if he'd been outside his inn.

"Frozen lunatics from the Moonsea with more gold than morals." She paused, then frowned and added, "And please leave them out of your notes. They're best left unmentioned."

Deekin looked up at her pleadingly, then sighed as she shook her head, and scratched out his last several paragraphs.

"It's for your own sake, Deekin, I swear it. You don't want to end up on their bad side."

"Or their good side, if they had one," Durnan muttered around a spoonful of stew.

"Exactly. Best to stay away from all sides of that tangled knot of snakes. They have a nasty bite."

Durnan had fair poured the stew down his throat, for all the little that remained. Della had forced most of it down, in spite of her stomach's protests— her blood was still up from the morning's encounters, and she still smelled the lingering scent of burned hair and flesh, as if it had lodged in her nostrils, but she doubted that she'd have more than trail rations for some time. She ignored the mostly empty mug of ale, choosing to drink from her waterskin instead.

"I assume Tamsil told you of the incident this morning?"

Durnan furrowed his brow, his face darkening like a thundercloud.

"Aye, that she did. I thought you'd like to wait for Alaric to rouse himself from bed before we discussed it."

Della's hands turned to ice, and she took a deep breath to keep her voice from shaking.

"Alaric and I…we had a bit of a falling out, I'm afraid."

Durnan could not have looked more shocked than if she'd told him she'd been practicing necromancy in her spare hours.

"I…I have a hard time believing that, lass. You two were nigh inseparable. What happened, if you don't mind my asking?"

She was keenly aware of Deekin's quill, stilled in its usually never-ending scrawl. She could feel Syolkiir in her mind, a comforting thrum of warmth against the coldness that had spread through her body.

"Neverwinter." She spoke the name so quietly that Durnan had to lean halfway across the table to hear it properly. She closed her mouth to stop all the other words that wanted to spill out and felt them become lodged in her throat, choking her with all that she wanted to say.

Durnan didn't press her, and when he spoke, there was only sympathy in his voice. Not pity. She was grateful for that. She was tired of pity.

"I am sorry, my girl. Tyr will see all of Neverwinter judged for those days, mark my words."

"Will he come down from the heavens himself to deliver that judgment?"

"I can only—", Della shook her head and rose from the table.

"I am half-sick of platitudes, Durnan. If Tyr intended to judge them, he would have cast their coward of a king down long ago." She raised a hand to stop Durnan from speaking once more, and continued, "It doesn't matter. Not anymore. I came here to find Halaster."

Durnan raised himself from the table as well, more slowly, and grimaced as one of his knees let out an audible pop.

"You and half of Faerun, it would seem. But I can help with that, at least. The well room-"

The world shook under her feet and she was pitched forward, her ribs slamming into the hard oak table. The breath whooshed from her lungs, and then there was a roar of noise and the smell of smoke. Then blackness. Blacker than night. Blacker than being stranded in a cave.

And then, light. A brilliant purple flame, running down her arms, up her back.

Faerie fire.

Drow.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry! Holidays and college got the best of me for a bit.

Valen

Valen had never had much room for vanity in his life. If there had ever been a trace of it, it had burned low in the streets of Sigil and then been snuffed out in the Abyss, along with so many other pieces of himself. He had grown used to the ragged, careworn face that stared back at him in the mirror, lit dimly by sparse candlelight. He had lost track of years in the Abyss—no, perhaps even before that. The days and nights of Sigil melted together, and the Abyss was a haze of red. He had never known how old he was, and the demon's blood that ran through is veins concealed many traces of age. Still, he felt it. The weariness in his bones, the myriad scars that still ached. Too many battles, too little rest. He could not recall that last time he had slept, much less the last time he had slept without returning to the Blood Wars. The black rings under his eyes were a testament to that. Slipping, always slipping, and he could not afford to show it. No one in Lith My'athar could. Drow respected little other than strength, and though he knew that none had forgotten the terror his rage could instill, he was aware that they would seize upon even the barest hint of weakness. Those that followed the Seer had forsworn such betrayal, but not all in their camp had loyalty to her alone. Some, he knew, still followed Lolth, and that worried him most. The Valsharess would come for them all, but at least she did not hide the dagger in her hand. Even in Lith My'athar, one of the last bastions of Eilistraee in the Underdark, he only removed his armor to sleep— and reluctantly, at that.

If ever there was anything complimentary to be said about his…companions… that had fought beside him in the Abyss, it was that demons were usually too stupid or temperamental to succeed at treachery. Most had attempted to rip him limb from limb the moment the thought occurred to them. Rarely, some had waited until he was unguarded, though they all did such a poor job of hiding their intentions that he had always anticipated the attempt. They had no patience for lying, no use for false smiles or words.

The people of the Prime, it seemed, had endless patience. The surfacers decried the Drow unceasingly, but in truth, he had known them to be equally as capable of committing atrocities. It seemed only to be a matter of which people had more opportunities for wickedness.

It was the easier path, to give in to the beast and silence your heart.

He would die before he ever walked it again.

He allowed himself a small groan as he pushed away from the washbasin, his exhausted muscles protesting even the smallest use. In the heat of battle, with the adrenaline, the rage, running through his vein, it was easy to ignore their distress. Here, in his quarters, in the few hours before sleep, there was nothing to distract him. He would have foregone his attempt at rest entirely, if the Seer had not ordered him away.

Valen leaned forward and blew out the candles, letting darkness blanket the room. His vision shifted, adjusting, the colors bleeding into grey and black, the room and all within becoming dim shapes.

He had never seen true blackness before meeting the Drow. Now, at times, he found even the memory of light fading. He made his way to his bed, and slumped down upon it, his body exulting at the relief, but his mind would not rest. The worries clawed at him—

_We are not prepared._

_We will die. The Seer will die. I will die._

_I will die, and return to the Abyss. _

_The flames flickered at the edge of his vision, his skin growing hot. Screaming, and teeth, and blood. Howling rage, so bright and burning that he could feel himself being devoured, turning into ash and smoke. _

He wrenched himself back into wakefulness, sweat trickling down his brow. When the knock came at the door, it was welcome.

"A moment." He called, dressing himself and once again donning his armor. He drew in a deep breath, willing his blood to cool, counting back the moments until the red haze receded, dispersing like a hateful mist.

Every day it took less time, and he took a small joy in that comfort. Even if they did not survive the coming war, he could die as…almost himself, fighting in a war he chose, for people he had grown to love.

He pulled the door open, and Imloth stood before him, dour as ever. Drow were not known for any great merriment, but Valen could not recall ever seeing Imloth give anything other than the smallest of smiles, and even that was closer to the baring of teeth.

They had always gotten on well.

"Valen. I trust that I did not wake you."

Valen grunted in assent and stepped aside, leaving the doorway empty.

"One would have to sleep to be woken, and sleep is rare these days. What brings you?"

Imloth took the open door as a wordless invitation and swept inside, drawing up a chair next to the stone table. He gestured for Valen to sit, his mouth drawn into a grimmer line than usual. He still wore his leathers, and his fingers drummed a nervous pattern on the tabletop.

"Nothing you will enjoy hearing, I'm afraid." He sighed deeply, and closed his eyes with a tired shake of his head.

"Good or ill, I have always appreciated information."

Valen took the proffered seat a bit warily. The chairs were a sturdy stone, but they had not been made for one of his stature, much less when he was fully armored. He had learned caution early in the face of possible embarrassment.

"Just as well to have that attitude. Rarely do good tidings enter Lith My'athar in these days."

Imloth's hands had stilled, but still he did not speak. He gazed at Valen for a moment, giving him a long, considering look.

"I apologize for my reticence. This will anger you, my friend. Are you prepared?"

Valen leaned forward in his chair, folding his hands together, and tried to still his mind. Imloth had never truly feared him, nor had he ever been completely comfortable in his presence. In spite of that, he had never shied away from Valen's company. Once, when a long battle had wearied their souls, and loosened their tongues, and neither had quite believed they would return safely to the Seer, Imloth had told him that he thought of Valen as akin to a great dragon of the deep. One might fight beside the creature, perhaps even befriend it, but should never forget that its nature tempted it to rage.

It had hurt all the more for being truth, and yet, Imloth had never condemned him for it.

"Speak, Imloth."

The drow hesitated a moment longer, then plunged forward.

"The Seer intends to withdraw most of our scouting parties. Of those that will remain in the field…" He drew in a long breath, "The Seer has made plans to use them as bait for the allies as the Valsharess."

Valen snarled, and stood up so swiftly that his chair was knocked back. He paced the room, his tail whipping back and forth in agitation.

"When was this decided? For what purpose?!"

Imloth tensed ever so lightly in his seat, his red eyes searing bright as he watched Valen pace.

"When the surfacer arrives, the Seer plans to use our men as a diversion, so that we may have a chance at disrupting the Valsharess from within."

"We have attempted that, or has she forgotten? Our people were found within a fortnight and butchered."

"Not spies. She believes that a small team will be capable of infiltration, so that we may strike the head off the snake, as it were."

Valen snorted, and stopped in his pacing.

"It will be more akin to cutting off a single leg of a spider, if we could even succeed. Who does she intent to send on this fool's errand?"

"You, my friend. You and the surfacer. Perhaps Nathyrra, if she returns hale and whole from Undermountain."

Valen could not help but laugh at his words, though there was no mirth in it. The Seer had truly lost her faith in him, then. He should have seen it coming. How could he expect her to place all of her trust in him, a demon-blooded vagabond who she had met as a beast on the battlefield? Still— to be so quickly stripped of favor, and replaced by a stranger the Seer had seen only in dreams…it was fitting that he be sent on a fool's errand, for a fool he had most certainly been. He slumped back down into his seat, suddenly far wearier than before.

"Have faith. The Seer has seen us through thus far."

"Luck and skill has seen us through, Imloth. I have yet to see the hands of any god in this war. Only archdevils and demons."

"You do not share our trust in Eilistraee. I know this. I ask only that you do not lose hope yet, my friend."

"I cannot promise you my hope, Imloth. Only my resolve."

The drow nodded, and gave the faintest hint of a smile, so quickly that Valen might have imagined it. He stood to leave, then turned back.

"I do have another concern, though it has yet to bear fruit. House Zesyyr."

House Zesyyr had been a thorn in their side from the moment they took them in. Desperation was all that held them together, and it was not a strong binding, particularly in the face of imminent slaughter.

"Has there been more fighting?"

"No— that would be a comfort. There has been no trouble. I fear that if my kin are not currently in the midst of a betrayal, then that usually means they are plotting one."

"Not your kin any longer," Valen remarked, though Imloth merely shrugged.

"They still might be. So long as there is life, I pray that they may yet be guided back to Eilistraee's light. Though I admit, it is unlikely. Particularly if my suspicions are correct."

"Do you believe the House stands united in this, or might they be swayed?"

Valen had learned long ago that Imloth's suspicions, much like Nathyrra's, tended to be right, and waiting for proof only led to needless bloodshed. It would be a lie to say that such swift judgment did not concern him, but neither of the two would have survived the brutal society of drow if they were possessed of naiveté. He did not consider himself a trusting person— trust had always been a luxury—but even he found that he was apt to misjudge the depths of lies in the Underdark.

Imloth was slow to speak, his brow furrowed in thought.

"Houses rarely stand united. The matter is one of discerning who is fomenting the betrayal. An elder daughter, wishing to curry favor with the Valsharess, or the Matriarch?"

Valen paused, considering. He knew some of the drow hierarchy, but never enough, it seemed.

"Would a younger daughter be willing to risk such? She would stand to gain the most, if successful."

Imloth shook his head immediately, dismissing the question.

"Aye, she would, but none would willingly follow her on such a venture. Nor would she bear the status to bend them to her will. The Matriarch could easily command them, but I cannot believe she would be fool enough to throw herself on the mercy of the Valsharess."

Valen nodded, and stood once more. He folded his arms in thought, his tail twitching slightly. He believed Imloth, but could not bring himself to discount the Matriarch entirely. She had been enough of the fool to join a pack of Eilistraee's followers, and yet follow Lolth.

"She threw herself at the mercy of Lolth, did she not?"

"I suppose she may be more of a fool than I thought," Imloth remarked dryly. "The Queen of Spiders does so despise moonlight." He shivered, his eyes closed and his face far away in some dark place, some dark memory. When he opened them again, they were cold and bitter, hard as the stone that surrounded them.

"We should wait, before we strike. I would not have us destroy any who may be allies."

Imloth nodded, and for the smallest moment, a shadow of regret passed over his face.

"Even though I have followed the Moonlit Lady for so very long, it seems I still serve Lolth's purpose, for how many I send to the Demonweb Pits."

He sighed, long and low, then straightened his shoulders and turned on his heel, slipping silently out of the room before Valen could reply.

It was just as well.

He had ever only known cold comforts, and they were all he could ever give.


	4. Chapter 4

Della

The darkness was pervasive. Della's back was pressed against an overturned table, but she could not see it. She couldn't see anything but the violet flames that licked up her arms. There were screams of fear, and pain, and she felt incredible heat surge over the room, as if flames were pouring over the inn, but still the darkness remained. Her hand was still on Deekin's shoulder, clutching him close. She heard Durnan shout something, but his voice was muffled, the words obscured by the din of panicked cries. She closed her eyes, and whispered in her mind.

_Syolkiir, I need your sight._

There was that familiar rush, the creep of magic down her spine, and then a weightlessness. She opened her eyes again, and they were the golden slits of a dragon.

The room was awash in colors. It always dazed her at first, the depth with which Syolkiir saw everything. Her own sight was paltry, a blind man's dream of color in comparison. Syolkiir fluttered next to her, alighting on the edge of the table, and obediently flitted his gaze around the room.

Durnan was guiding guests to the exits as best he could, finding his steps on memory alone. The drow were flooding into the common room, cutting down all the unfortunates that stood in their way. Some were standing and fighting, but they were losing. How could they fight when they could not see? Drow were born in darkness; it was no hindrance to them.

She saw one woman bent down, kneeling next to man, trying to staunch the tide of blood from his side. Her lips were moving in a murmured prayer, and then a light so bright it almost stung her borrowed eyes flooded from her fingertips, the wound knitting back together.

Perhaps it was the prayer, or perhaps the light had penetrated the darkness, but a pair of drow surged forth from the mob, swords drawn. The woman stayed near the man, her eyes still shut in concentration.

There was no use in hiding. The flames still flitted about her form, merry and malicious— they would see her soon enough. And what had she to fear? She gripped the amulet about her neck, where it pulsed warmly in time with her quickened heartbeat.

Death could not stomach her.

She surged to her feet, brushing off the familiar dizziness that came from moving while still borrowing Syolkiir's sight. She turned his head, focusing his gaze on the drow that drew near the cleric.

The Weave hummed at her touch, the threads pulling themselves around her mind, around her tongue as she spoke, spinning the words around him like a cocoon.

_Kill him. Kill him, take his place. No one need know._

The second drow stumbled briefly in his approach. His mind felt red, and slick, so used to betrayals that her own words took root as easily as if they had ever been his intent.

Perhaps they had been.

He lunged forward, gripping his companion tightly about the shoulder, and shoved the blade forward. It slipped easily through, finding the seam in the armor as if he had practiced the motion a thousand times. The other man never even screamed. His eyes went wide, and then empty as he fell to the ground, blood dripping from his lips.

_There. So easy. No one even saw. _

She flicked her gaze to another drow, close to him, but hanging back from the rest. The drow was breathing a black prayer of her own, paying no heed to any of her party. Betraying a priestess was death— who would dare?

_She whipped you, didn't she? Not even a fortnight ago. Look at her, so proud, so beautiful…she would never even think that you might be her better. Show her._

Della felt the rage well up in her own breast, and she took a breath, forcing it down. It was not hers. It had no dominion here. The drow had turned to the priestess and approached her, stepping near as if to stand guard. She never even glanced his way, so certain of the protection her status granted her. When the blade slid into her ribs, she had only the briefest of moments to look shocked. The drow stood over her as she fell, with a smile of grim satisfaction.

He had wanted that, even before she whispered in his ear.

_They know what you did. They will kill you. Sacrifice you. Flay you alive, cast you into the spider pits. You must kill them first!_

His face clouded over at her words, panic drawing near as he realized what he had done. She felt a cold wave rush up her back, her heart beating faster, faster as the man turned to face his former allies. Della pulled back on the Weave, snapping the thread binding them together. He wouldn't need any encouragement to turn on his party— her words were true, and he knew them to be so.

There were still so many. But she had turned the tide from the cleric, at least, and they had one more ally now, for what little time he had left in this life.

The woman had stood, and pulled the wounded man to his feet. He wobbled unsteadily for a moment, his face pale, but his side was stitched and no blood poured from it. She held him close, steadying him, and Della heard her chanting. Her voice thrummed with power , then light poured off of her in waves.

She flinched in pain at the sudden brightness, and released Syolkiir's sight. The drow retreated, covering their eyes, taken aback at the loss of darkness. Her drow seized upon the advantage, his back turned to the light to face his comrades, and cut down another before they had rallied.

Durnan had managed to herd most of the unarmed to the doors of the Yawning Portal and waved them through, thundering out orders. A scattered few still remained, huddled behind tables or crouching behind the bar, too panicked to recognize their chance.

She reached down and pulled Deekin to his feet. He looked at her, wide-eyed with confusion and clutching his lute to his scaled chest as if it were a lifeline.

"Deekin," She said, leaning close and speaking as calmly as she could manage, "These people need to get out before they're hurt. They're too scared to listen to Durnan. I need you to help calm them down enough so they can follow orders."

He stood on the tips of his clawed feet and peeked over the table, eyeing the battle. The drow were on the defensive now, fending off the renewed attacks of the mercenaries who had answered Waterdeep's call for aid. The drow she had commanded lay dead on the floor- either at the hand of one of his own, or an overzealous adventurer. It was a better fate than he might have had, if he had survived the ambush and returned to the Underdark.

Deekin looked at her once more, then hissed in a breath and darted around the table, strumming his lute as he went. The jangling music rushed over the room in golden tones, washing away the bitterly black fear pervading the hearts of the huddled men and women. It lifted her own heart as well, suffusing through her being like a warm cup of tea on a bitterly cold day. For all the bards that she had met in her lifetime, Deekin was perhaps the least musically gifted, but she had never met any that could play with such spirit or joy. His stories were his incantations, and the strings of his lute the Weave— she had always wondered if he possessed a touch of sorcery, passed on in the traces of draconic lineage.

Wherever he drew his power from, it was stronger than he recognized. The cowering people stood and rushed for the doors. A few of the drow attempted to break off from their group and go after easier prey, but found themselves quickly rebuffed by the sellswords. They were being slowly forced into a retreat— those that were on their own had been cut down, and the rest were trapped, with each step they took bringing them closer to the well they had crawled out of.

If only Durnan had not insisted on so much wood when he built the Yawning Portal— a well-placed fireball could solve all of their problems. As it was, she was going to have to pull some darker threads on the Weave.

She sought them out in her mind, felt them writhing in the darkness, and willed them into being. The tentacles erupted through the wooden floor of the inn, wrapping themselves around the legs of the drow and dragging them down to their knees. Some cut desperately at the tentacles, their swords slashing through the roiling inky black, but it had no more effect than a hand trailing through water. A scarce few were able to flee and plunged back into the well, without even a single look behind to those they abandoned. Most found themselves dying a slow death, their bones breaking as the eldritch tentacles squeezed ever tighter. The rest were granted the swift mercy of a falling sword.

Della breathed deeply as the battlefield quieted, then forced the tentacles back from the shadowy plane they had been drawn from. It was a struggle— a wizard could simply dismiss them with a word. Her command was more tenuous. The Weave had been what brought them into the Prime; she had merely borrowed its energy. Most conjured beings, she had found, firmly believed that technicality was the death of authority. Without a strong will, they could be correct.

She brushed back a sweaty lock of hair, and collapsed into the nearest chair. Syolkiir alighted on her shoulder, and he nuzzled into her neck with a trilling cry. Images filled her mind— _Murt, pulling her out of the blood_-_soaked mud and into a hug, nearly crushing her with the strength born of worry— Whiptail dealing a hand of cards, then laughing brightly as she slipped one up her sleeve—Luskan, and the Moonsea, and even Zhentil Keep— family, home. _She stroked a finger down his scales and whispered back to him.

_I know, my sweetling. One day, we'll have all that again._

She dreamed of a time when the day would start with the sun waking her gently from slumber, not the blade of an assassin. But she couldn't start that life— not now, when the one she loved most could still be hanging in the balance.

"Boss? You be okay?"

She opened her eyes again wearily. Deekin looked up at her, his scaly brow furrowed in anguished concern.

"Just tired, Deeks. The day has been…taxing."

And not even half past breakfast yet, with Undermountain and Halaster looming in her future still. With drow and who could even know what else lurking in the dark depths the Mad Mage had conjured up. Still, it could have been much worse. She could see only a few dead, and the injured were already being tended to. Drow skirmishes rarely ended so well.

She cast her gaze back down to the little kobold, eyeing him carefully. His hands shook a bit, the claws clicking together anxiously, but she couldn't see any wounds on him.

"What about you, Deekin? Are you alright?"

He had drawn out his quill and journal and was scribbling rapidly, his shaky hands making the letters scratchier than normal. Deekin glanced up when she spoke, his scaly nose scrunching up in consternation.

"Deekin be okay." He shivered for a moment. "But Deekin not likes drow much. And Deekin's notes got mixed up."

"Nobody likes drow much. Not even other drow. " She reached down and took Deekin's quill and journal for a moment, and carefully scrawled in an empty margin— _Deekin fought bravely against the drow, and saved the lives of many guests of the Yawning Portal . —_before handing it back to him. "There. Give yourself credit when you write your book, Deeks. Most people would brown their breeches at the sight of a drow, let alone a whole hunting party."

Deekin ducked his head bashfully, his foot pawing at the floor.

"Aye, kobold. Listen to her. She's got the right of it."

Durnan clapped a hand down onto his shoulder and gave it a companionable shake, nearly toppling Deekin over with the force of it.

"Without you and your kobold, lass, it would've been far bloodier. "

She smiled up at him, and took his proffered hand to stand. "He's his own man, Durnan. And the day has hardly begun. It will be bloodier still by the end of it."

He returned her smile wearily, and for the first time, she noticed how much he had aged since she had first met him. What little hair he had left was greying, and his skin was deeply lined and weathered . Even his great height had begun to be stooped. She swallowed thickly against the sudden lump in her throat.

"I suppose I can't convince you to stay clear of this whole business, can I?"

She shook her head at Durnan's words, not trusting herself to speak without a tremble. He pulled her into a sudden tight embrace, heedless of the blood and sweat on both their clothes. His voice was a low, choked rumble when he spoke.

"You keep safe, my girl. I won't be the one to tell Murt that I let you vanish into Undermountain without so much as a letter his way."

Della closed her eyes tightly to keep the tears from falling, and returned his hug with all the strength she could muster. She smiled when he released her, squeezing his shoulder warmly.

"I always come back, Durnan. I'll even be sure to come back in one piece."

* * *

A/N: Undermountain next! It's going to be different from the games as, frankly, Undermountain was never very interesting to me from a writing or reading perspective.


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